


I Could Be Your Something

by Shi_Toyu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Post-Fall, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shi_Toyu/pseuds/Shi_Toyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No...I am not your Sherlock and you are not my Johnathon...but I think we could help each other." Post-Fall. The figure in the graveyard looked so familiar...but is it really the same man we thought it was?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Could Be Your Something

The brunette shivered slightly in the chill air of the graveyard, despite the heavy coat he wore. Shrubbery obscured him from the curious gaze of onlookers, but that didn't stop him from watching the funeral proceeds down below…Sherlock Holmes's funeral. A surprising number of people had shown up, more than he would have expected, and there were obvious signs of true grief.

None were more heartbreaking than the blonde soldier who stood, stone-faced, next to his little landlady. His shoulders were squared back, spine held straight and chin held high. The onlooker doubted there was a single person in the procession that couldn't tell that John Watson was falling apart at the loss of his best friend.

Curls fell in the watcher's face as he bowed his head, unable to look upon the familiar face. Once, that face had brought him nothing but joy and excitement. Now it brought pain and memories he wished to push aside. How he wished he could have prevented that impossibly painful event from happening, but there was nothing that could change it. He just had to make the best of what he had left.

Mycroft had fixed things up, bless him. For once in his insufferable life, his older brother had done exactly as he has asked, more like demanded, with no questions asked. So now he was here, looking down at the face that had captured his heart. He needed only to go and speak to him.

The funeral did not take long, and he hadn't expected it to. Sherlock Holmes had never been one for sentiment and his funeral was basic at best. Even from the hilltop, though, he could see the glossy blackness of the headstone and knew that it was of the finest quality. Nothing but the best for a Holmes, his father had used to tell him.

But that was in the past, another time and another place. He didn't want to dwell on those things, not here, not when nobody but the landlady and the stone-faced, crumbling soldier were left at the foot of the grave. He wanted nothing more than to go to them, to wrap his arms around the blonde and bury his face in the other's neck. He wanted to be fussed over by the world's greatest landlady before running off on some exciting case or adventure.

It couldn't happen like that, though. Things were never so simple, so easy. People didn't just come back from the dead and get accepted into their old lives like nothing happened. Besides…nothing was the same anymore, except perhaps his face. He knew better than most how deceiving a face could be.

A crackle in his ear told him that the bug he'd placed near the grave was picking something up. It was little more than a clear sticker with nanotechnology running through it, practically undetectable. He'd tuned out the funeral, uninterested in what other's had to say about the tragedy that had brought them all together. This, though, he wanted to hear.

"I'm angry."

His knees almost buckled at the sound of that voice, he was so overcome with emotion.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that, that's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns off at one in the morning!"

It was clear that Mrs. Hudson was trying to cover her own grief with anger, trying to dull the pain.

"Yeah."

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine! Keeping bodies where there's food. And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!"

John didn't seem able to muster up the same passion she was displaying.

"Yeah, listen. I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." She pat his arm comfortingly. "I'll just leave you alone to…you know."

Then she was walking away, leaving the conversation to John and the headstone…and his voyeur. Was it sick, the brunette wondered, how much he wanted to know what John would say when he was alone?

"You…you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human," here, John struggled to find the right word, "human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there." He nodded sharply to himself. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." The soldier's façade was cracking, the hurt and agony slipping through. "Don't be…dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

If the onlooker had harbored any doubts about his plan of action, he rid himself of them while hearing those words. His entire body yearned to break cover and go to the blonde as he gave the headstone a final pat before turning away. The detective knew he couldn't, though. There were too many eyes, watching, waiting.

There were things that needed to be finished.

For three years, he tracked down every tiny associate of the organization Jim Moriarty had run. The first to die were the snipers that had been used to convince the younger Holmes brother to jump off a roof. He didn't waste time trying to play with any others among Moriarty's men, even the interesting ones. There was only one man who captivated his attention anymore.

He worried about what would happen to the man Sherlock had left behind, and so he never stayed away for long. Always, he watched from the shadows to keep an eye on John Watson. Sometimes, he watched too closely and was nearly caught. It wouldn't do for John to discover him before he was ready. It was selfish, he knew, but matters were complicated enough as it was.

It helped that Mycroft Holmes was taking a stance against the organization as well. It took careful planning to make sure he stayed out of the way of MI6, and they stayed out of his. It wouldn't be the first time he'd killed, but he did prefer to do so when it was the enemy's life he was taking.

Jim Moriarty had accused Sherlock of being on the side of the angels, but he'd never had the opportunity of facing the dark angel that reigned death and destruction down upon the organization he had so carefully built. There was not a force that could stand in his way.

When the final lackey had been dealt with, the last informer silenced, the brunette found himself far more afraid than he had been at the beginning of his mission. It was not a criminal organization he was set to face, but the best friend of a man who had killed himself. He knew how to handle the first much better than the latter.

It seemed only right that the encounter would happen at Baker Street, where Sherlock and John had spent so much time together. It was home, a safe haven that John kept up with even when he could not bear to live there. He'd only returned six months prior. The old flat was more comforting to the both of them, rather than Angelo's where there was an audience or St. Bart's where it all began…because it had ended there, too.

And so he found himself standing on the doorstep of the flat where Sherlock and John had lived, staring up at the faint glow of a light in the window of 221B. He slid a key from the pocket of his long coat, wondering if it would still work. The last thing he wanted to do was have to knock and be greeted by Mrs. Hudson. He didn't think he'd be able to handle more than one reunion a day.

To his relief, it turned in the lock without a whisper of complaint and he was soon easing the door open to step inside. Everything looked exactly the same and, for a moment, he was so overcome by a feeling of home that he could not continue. It was too much. The shuffling of feet could be heard on the floorboards overhead, though, and he could hear the voice of the man he loved in his head, urging him forward.

His footsteps fell silently on the stairs, a byproduct of the past several years spent sneaking up on assassins. He was careful to skip the step that creaked, knowing that some things never changed. He could hear the sounds of tea making from the kitchen and smiled to himself. It was more than just the stair that had stayed the same.

The door to 221B stood ajar, as John often left it. The brunette paused in the doorway, hesitant to move further into the room. His mind whirred with a thousand different ways for this all to go wrong, for it to blow up in his face. What if John did not want him here?

All thought screeched to a halt, however, as the blonde man exited the kitchen. He crossed the room to the desk where his computer sat without turning to catch a glimpse of the door. It would still be possible for the detective to back away and slip out unnoticed. It could be like he'd never been there at all. John would never have to know.

Except then John turned and caught sight of the man standing in his doorway. He didn't even notice as his mug of tea shattered against the floor. Pain and hope and fear warred for dominance across his face.

"Sherlock?"

His voice was hopeful, pleading, but barely more than a whisper. Guilt and pain ripped through his visitor's chest, even though the detective had known this was likely to happen. Almost reluctantly, dark curls shook in response to the question.

"No…I am not your Sherlock and you are not my Johnathon…but I think we could help each other."

"Not my?...Johnathon? What are you talking about?"

John was moving towards him then, reaching out as though to confirm he was real through physical contact. The brunette's eyes fluttered shut at the contact of the other's hand against his cheek and, for a moment, he was unable to speak. He managed to pull himself together, though, and turned his attention towards the business at hand.

"My name is Sherwood Holmes and my flat mate and best friend was Johnathon Hayward Watson, a doctor and a soldier. I come from another dimension, one that splintered from this one only a few decades ago, shortly before you or I were born. Not a lot had the chance to change."

John was shaking his head and backing away.

"That's crazy." He huffed a laugh, forcing it out. "I'm dreaming. Must be. This," he gestured to the room at large, "is all a dream. Tomorrow I'm going to wake up and my best friend will still be dead and you will not be here!"

The blonde's agitation was clear, but understandable.

"Your best friend is dead, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes is dead and he is not coming back." A pained look crossed the blonde's face and he looked like he couldn't decide whether to cry or punch the other in the mouth. Sherwood's face softened at the sight of an expression he knew often decorated his own face. "Neither is Johnathon."

That seemed to catch the other's attention at least. Dragging a hand over his face, the doctor slumped down into his usual armchair, the fight leaving him. He gestured for the brunette to sit on the couch and he did so without comment.

"Who is…Johnathon?"

"You. In my world. Just as I am the equivalent of Sherlock Holmes. He was strapped into a bomb vest by one Professor James Moriarty…I did not get there in time."

John was nodding slowly, seeming to absorb this information. Their eyes connected for a moment and each knew the pain that the other felt was only matched by their own.

"Did he…look as much like me as you do Sherlock?"

"Exactly."

Sherwood's voice was riddled with pain and John didn't need any explanation as to where it stemmed from. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"So, if you're from another dimension, or whatever, how did you get here? Do you have magic or a Tardis or did you find a rift or something?"

The brunette couldn't help but chuckle.

"Not quite. The technology from my world is much more advanced than yours here. Our scientists discovered the existence of alternate realities seven years ago and we have been able to travel into them for the past three years, though it is highly illegal without a government permit."

"But you have one?"

"My brother."

"Mycroft, of course." John's brow suddenly furrowed. "Is he still Mycroft, in your world?"

A small smile snuck on to Sherwood's face.

"Yes. The splinting of our worlds occurred after his birth. He was just a baby at the time, but he is practically exactly the same as in your world."

"I see…"

"I have to admit, you are taking this remarkably well."

The blonde shrugged.

"I have to admit…I don't totally believe this isn't a dream yet."

Sherwood nodded, not really sure how to continue. A long moment of silence passed between them before John spoke again.

"So…why did you come here?"

Sherwood's eyes darkened again, the pain he'd momentarily been able to forget back full force.

"I needed Johnathon, from the moment he wandered into my life. His presence became so much a part of me that I find myself unable to function the same way I did before without him. I began to scour the other worlds for someone like him, though he could never be replaced. I just can't…I-" His chuckle was humorless. "I am lost without my blogger."

John, who had been avoiding looking at his guest during the emotional display, snapped his eyes back. Something Sherwood had said must have gotten to him.

"So you're unattached…like me."

Suddenly, Sherwood's gaze was back on him. Had so little changed? Truly?

"I could…get a candle for the table."

A smile tugged at the edge of John's lips.

"It'd be more romantic."

"I thought you weren't my date."

"I'm not. But I could be your…something. Let's start off slow, shall we? Still being here when I wake up in the morning would be a good start."

"I would like nothing more."


End file.
